


Finding Home

by cervidcell



Category: Boyfriend to Death (Visual Novels)
Genre: Animal Abuse, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Existential Dread, Experimental, F/M, One-Sided Attraction, Suicide Attempt, animal abuse is mild, at least for now
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-13
Updated: 2018-10-13
Packaged: 2019-08-01 12:44:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16284836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cervidcell/pseuds/cervidcell
Summary: [HIATUS]Lawrence dips a finger into its socket and swirls it around, tilting his head to the side in intrigue. You drop next to him, thigh bumping into his as you reach down to join him. Your fingertips graze the bumps and ridges of each tooth, curling around it's jaw and up to where it's ear once was."Can I keep it?" You find yourself asking without intending to speak.He looks up at you for a second, before watching your finger trace patterns on the forehead of it's skull. "If I can keep some of it too.""What do you want?" He pulls his finger out of the cats eye socket and looks over its body."The spine.""And I can keep the rest?" You smile at him, and he nods in return.





	Finding Home

You're 6 years old, and you've just moved to a new school.

You're not sure why things have gone the way they have, and you wish you could understand, wish your family would speak to you about it. But amidst overtired sighs of ' _you'll know when you're older_ ' and ' _Mummy and Daddy need some space, okay sweetie?_ ' all that you understand is that everything you know is gone. 

Everyone you love - aside from your parents - is gone. 

You'd spent some time collecting old posters, clip-outs from magazines of songs and TV shows you'd loved and now they're off in the bin somewhere, unimportant enough in your family's eyes to come along.

When you express your fears, and anger, and wipe tear-streaked cheeks with a fist and scorn 'I hate you!' (and it's not real, but in the moment it is) there's no coddling, no warmth of arms around you, a kiss pressed to the crown of your head. There's only a sterile room that feels wrong to call your own. A house devoid of personality and love and life that won't ever be your home.

You're thrown into the thick of it; a new school, with new faces, and the teacher stares at you and smiles but it doesn't bring back home. Whispers of students drift in your ears and it's all you hear amongst the pulsing of your own blood. Your throat feels thick, forced-shut and you can't breathe while the teacher prods you for details, attempts to mesh you in with the rest of the class.

The shrill scream of the school bell breaks your panic and the class shuffles out, leaving you alone once more.

You wobble up on shaky knees and make your way outside, the stark burn of the sun making you flinch, eyes-shut, in an attempt to adjust. Children cry in excitement, swing, fall, throw a ball at each other and it seems everyone's already made friends. The weight of your lunchbox seems to increase; you aren't hungry, aren't sure you could eat even if you forced yourself to, but you sit regardless, sure that standing out would make you prime for teasing. You prod at your lunch with a frown.

"Eww, leave me alone!"

A girl - long, brown pigtails pulled back with those hair bands with the plastic accessories on them that you beg your mum to buy you - pushes someone else into the dirt, and props her hands on her hips in defiance. Two other girls stand at her sides, a cute brunette with a cartoon pencil case, and a fidgety blonde with velcro shoes featuring one of the most popular TV shows.

You prop your lunch back in your backpack, intrigued.

"You're weird," the girl with the pigtails pokes her tongue out and grabs her friends hands, "We're going on the jungle gym, and freaks aren't allowed!"

You throw your bag over your shoulder, taking slow steps towards the trio.

"No wonder he doesn't have any friends," the blonde makes to turn and stops when she sees you.

"Whadda _you_ want?" Pigtails sneers.

You'd love to say that you told them off, stood up for anyone they picked on or that you'd made friends with them, and found a place in the social hierarchy where you could ride artificial stardom until it wasn't needed anymore.

But you stand there, watch, nervous and sweating bullets and trying to force something - anything - out. Why are you scared? You already know at least one thing about the three of them you could use to be friends with - the hair bands, the cartoon pencil case, the velcro shoes - and if all else fails, a simple ' _can we be friends?_ ' worked wonders in your last home.

The girls decide you've taken too long to answer, and they become visibly disinterested, leaving you behind and chattering about the newest episode of a show on Disney you'd never liked.

You tilt your head down, only to come face to face with a boy. He has raggedy blonde hair and big blue eyes; dirt covers half his face, the sleeves of his shirt and his pant legs. He blinks up at you and smiles. It's only when he stands up, dusts himself off and adjusts his book that you realize he's carrying a children's encyclopedia.

"Hi, I'm Lawrence. Do you wanna be friends?"

"Okay." You find yourself smiling back and telling him your name, and he excitedly lifts his encyclopedia up to your eyes. There's a collage of animals on the front of it, some you aren't overly familiar with.

"Wanna find some bugs with me?"

"Okay," you repeat, and follow him to the outskirts of the school.

While bugs aren't necessarily your thing (if you're being honest with yourself, they're kind of icky, and you feel an overwhelming urge to scrub your hands clean when Lawrence plucks a worm out of the dirt and shows it to you), Lawrence's enthusiasm rubs off on you, and you spend a few minutes digging with him.

He leads you around the playground, points out peculiar spots he's fond of, and asks if you want him to push you on the swings. Each recess you swap between his interests and yours; some days spent tugging bark off trees with your tiny nails, reveal oozing wounds on the trees surface and daring each other to taste it, other days spent chasing each other in circles, and you'd drop where he can't see you and play dead. He's smart, though, and when he sees your fallen body, he tackles you and prods at your sides, throwing you into a giggle fit.

Your new life doesn't feel quite so barren and scary anymore.

\--

You're 10 years old, and you've just found a dead animal.

In reality, it wasn't _you_ who found it - Lawrence had, and his excited bounding and waved arms called you down to a well-hidden patch of overgrown weeds out the back of the school. The teachers had lovingly dubbed the area _Out Of Bounds_ , which means little to nothing to you at this time; a title, or perhaps this was the name of the actual area itself, maybe it was a type of tree, or a flowering plant.

Amongst said plants is where Lawrence spots the corpse; a kitten, wasted away to near-nothing, part of its skull caved in. He seems delighted by it, dropping to a squat and pointing out things he's read about - but you can't hear him over your own tunnel vision, hyper-focused on the sad scene in front of you.

"Hey," Lawrence's voice cuts through your thoughts, and you lock eyes with him.

"Hmm?"

"You okay?"

You nod, and look down at the mutilated corpse again. If you can do this, he'll probably think you're cooler, right?

"Yeah, I'm fine."

He grins and reaches for a stick, but stops short, changing his directory straight towards the kitten's head. One of his hands - a small part of you notices his nails, always dirty - reaches into the crack of it's skull and pulls it apart. Blood stains his fingertips and while you're unsure of how you should act, he doesn't look malicious, more like he's investigating.

It eases you.

You gently grasp his hand and pull it away when his fingers reach to dig into the poor kitten's chest cavity. He gasps, as if stung, and swivels his head in your direction, eyes wide and pupils dilated.

"Wanna go play on the swings instead?"

His gaze wavers, eyebrows furrowing as he looks down at the kitten again. He wipes his fingers clumsily on a patch of grass and stands up, brushing himself off.

"Okay."

You try to bring your mind off the corpse - away from the way it's eyes had bulged under the pressure, the way its lips pulled back in a permanent sneer, the way Lawrence seemed transfixed - and fill your time with focusing on your classwork, spending recess with the only friend you'd made.

Noticing anything about him that'd keep your mind off it, like the way he spouted off facts about plants and wildlife you'd never even heard of, or the way his smile seemed a little less bright but still just as sweet as when you'd first met him. You think about the way he doesn't really engage in anything outside of his own niche interests, but that's okay. He's still the nicest person you've been around.

The only person you've been around, but nevertheless, the nicest.

It's a few weeks later when you both trot down the deep slopes behind the school, hand in hand, lifting legs and plodding down in a made-up marching game. He steps to the side, grip too loose and wobbles, about to fall and yet you're there to catch him; he grins at you and calls you his saviour. You playfully bump your shoulder into his, swinging your arms in time with your steps. The clearing looks the same, undisturbed for the most part, and you're surprised that there's no smell. Lawrence detaches his hand from yours, rushing in front of you and dropping to his knees in glee, parting the same bush as before.

There, the kitten still lays, now a husk of cleaned-out bones. Lawrence seems less enthusiastic than before, but you find yourself smiling at the sight. It's.. oddly nice that mother nature takes over like this; reclaims all, feasts on what isn't necessary anymore and uses it to thrive, leaving behind a present for travelers. You're unable to voice just why you're happy about it, so you stick with the thought that it's pretty. The bones are pretty. Not as white as you'd expected, but cleaner, smaller, the little teeth and tiny bones that make up its feet are... cute.

Lawrence dips a finger into its socket and swirls it around, tilting his head to the side in intrigue. You drop next to him, thigh bumping into his as you reach down to join him. Your fingertips graze the bumps and ridges of each tooth, curling around it's jaw and up to where it's ear once was.

"Can I keep it?" You find yourself asking without intending to speak.

He looks up at you for a second, before watching your finger trace patterns on the forehead of it's skull. "If I can keep some of it too."

"What do you want?" He pulls his finger out of the cats eye socket and looks over its body.

"The spine."

"And I can keep the rest?" You smile at him, and he nods in return.

He pulls the skeletons frail body apart with delicate hands, making sure to leave the rest of it undisturbed as he dusts off the spine, shoving it in his pocket. You move in after him, not bothering with the excess dirt and instead dumping the contents in your backpack. You'll set a home for it somewhere where your family can't see.

Only a few days later does your mother call you, using your full name and a concerned tone. She's holding your bag, where you'd forgotten you'd left the body until just now. Colour drains from your face at her concerned expression. "Is this the work of that boy?"

Your guilty face gives you away. Your mother sighs, drops to your height and runs her fingers through your hair. "Sweetie, I don't like you playing with him."

You frown. "Why? He's nice."

"I just don't think it's safe for you, okay?" She smiles with sad eyes, turning her soothing strokes into a short ruffle that puts strands of hair in your eyes. "I'm just looking out for you."

If she was really looking out for you, you'd think she'd see things from your perspective; he's a sweet kid, and he's never treated you as anything but a friend, far more than you can say for anyone else at this school.

If she was really looking out for you, she wouldn't have moved here in the first place.

If she was really looking out for you, you'd still be back at home, with your old friends, and your old room, and your old life.

Thankfully, your mother stands up and leaves you to go tend to the stove, when tears start to gather at the corners of your eyes. 

\--

You're 14 years old, and you're just starting to feel uncomfortable.

Lawrence is a lot quieter around you, and when the two of you hang out there's only silence, saved by the occasional scratch of your pen on paper. He sits and watches, and more often than not you have to prod at him to get his attention.

It's a transition slow and subtle, like a frog boiling in water, and by the time you've realized just how different he's become it's far too late to make any mention of it to him. He doesn't talk to anyone else anymore. If you _do_ go exploring, it's quiet, and he doesn't run or jump or grin. The most you pry from him is the rare, tight-lipped smile, eyebrows strained in an attempted imitation of happiness, but it's just not there anymore.

You put it down to puberty; you yourself have changed, you’re angrier, more confused, and withdrawn but you're still _trying_ where Lawrence seems to just have accepted his fate. He doesn't invite you over to his house anymore, and your parents are still blissfully unaware of your continued friendship with him - it's for the best, they don't know him like you do - so the only time you spend together is when your classes run together, or during lunch breaks. You try to attend every day, and on the rare day that you _can't_ (and the sick excuse only works for so long; you worry if you mentioned cramps to him he'd freak) he's snippier than usual and he makes you feel like the time you spend with him is unwanted.

Maybe it really is. Have you forced your way into this friendship?

Or maybe he's the one holding _you_ back.

You're in high school now - a school you'd chosen purely because he was going there, and you don’t want to leave him, despite the fact that only a few minutes away was a better school more aimed towards your specific needs - and yet you still have no other friends. You'd tried to make friends in the classes he wasn't in, and whilst some were polite (and others, not so much) conversation was always dictated with stilted smiles and concerned " _aren't you friends with that weird guy?_ "

You spin it in your mind that _yeah, you're the victim here_ , and Lawrence has ruined your life with his reputation. Lawrence has tainted your high school years - and who said they were the best? - and held you back as resident 'weirdo'. What would become of your yearbook? What of gossip, and rumours? How many people have backed away from you, how many opportunities have left because of Lawrence always being _there_ , hovering - well-known and yet not known at all. You write frustrated details of your life with him in your diary: scorned letters meant for him and yet not, frantic notes of your dreams and aspirations and potential and if this is what you truly deserve.

At home, you lock your diary under your bed, far away from prying eyes. The words you write feel true, and yet you're ashamed. Ashamed because you don't feel like you're adjusting to life like everyone else seems to be, and you're not sure if you love or hate Lawrence anymore (and is that okay to question?), and you aren't popular, but you aren't the worst of the worst, a nobody, floating indescribably between lines of meaning where you fall on 'nothing'.

Is it better to be nothing, when nothing can hurt you?

Anxiety and depression creep up on you without expectation, and it all reaches a peak when you scramble into your mother's drug drawer one quiet night, throwing back as many pills as you can muster. You choke them down with a swig of water, sobs clogging your throat. A thumb rolls over the label - _diazepam_ \- and a part of you laughs at that.

Diazepam. Diazepam. Diezepam.

You hope you die.

There's nothing for you to do but to wait, cradle yourself, use the warmth of your own arms and pat your own head in a sad simulation of a kiss, let the tears cascade down your cheeks and keep quiet so your parents don't find out. Funny how you care about that, when they'll know eventually. It hits you that this could be it, it could be over - this is irreparable, is it not? Is this really how you go? - but you're a gross mixture of terrified and relieved; terrified because this all just feels like a cry for attention, and maybe you don't want to die, but relieved because this is the end of it.

This is the end.

Nothing more to worry about.

You rest your forehead on your drawn knees and find yourself slipping away into nothingness

-

The first thing you register is how devoid of sensation you are. You're startled, you think, by how sharp you expected the sensation, how slow and rough the descent into death would feel, foaming at the mouth, convulsions on the floor, at least feeling _something_. In a way you can sense the atoms of your being trying to part - colours - fragments of red, blue, green - attempt to tear from your flesh but all you truly feel is empty. Despite the lack of light you see yourself, yet see from your own point of view at the same time. When you shift your hands your body moves like clips of a computer stuttering, framerate dropping. For a second your frame seems to part from the colouring of your own flesh - are you dead? Is this death? Are you scared?

For a while, all you do is float listlessly in this void. It's dark, and black, but vast and unyielding and more warm than you remember being. You close your eyes, and the lack of sensation from your lids is unnerving. Your back warms, burns, then it's on fire, the suddenness alarming and you're dropping - senses work overtime as your own weight plummets in you, and you're thrown into a floor: warm, itchy, a strong smell.

You're in wheat.

Forcing yourself up you look around, you blink slowly, adjust to the new sensations bombarding you all at once. A sprawling landscape of wheatfields greets you; a sun, and sky; sunset, warm and inviting. The plains are endless. Wind blows your hair from your face, curling the locks around your cheek where you swat the stray hairs away.

You choose a direction and walk, aimless.

You think you should be sweating but somehow the temperature is perfect, like a perfect summer day, like the world cradles you as you'd longed for since childhood. A low rumbling meets your ears, getting progressively louder each step you take until a monolith greets you. There's carvings down the length of it's onyx surface, glowing faint with gold, and it's cool to the touch. As your fingers trail down each symbol they light up and hum, and you take a tentative step back.

Something cackles behind you.

You whip around to face it - and a bipedal jackal greets you with the tilt of a head and a wide - too wide to be natural - smile, all teeth, with eyes closed and yet you feel its gaze through your heart. It speaks with two voices overlaid to each other, an echo behind it, stemming from somewhere you can't see.

"Hello." It calls your name.

It's lips don't move.

"Who are you?" You press your back against the monolith, preparing your escape in case things turn sour. Your eyes drop down its body; it's wearing a blue dress with a pleated skirt, shoe-less, with no discernible paws, just a mass of flesh. It bears jewellery - gold - and you're certain that it's real. Is it a girl? Is it rude to ask?

"What do you think I am?"

Your throat closes and sweat builds at your brow. Fingernails dig into the onyx, unable to find purchase. You don't answer. It cackles again.

"You amuse me." It states your name again, and a pit of unease builds in your chest. How does it know you? "Did you kill yourself for attention? Are you greedy?"

"N-no." You curse yourself for stuttering, "I'm just.. Sad."

"Relax, child." The tone turns soothing, but it's condescending when it’s coming from such a short-statured being that feels both younger and aeons older than yourself. "I'm not here to hurt you."

"What do you want?" Your fingers slip on the cool surface of the monolith, sweat wetting your palms.

"I'm supposed to weigh your heart against a feather. But that's boring - I know you'd lose."

Your eyebrows furrow together, you’re not sure if you should be offended or not.

"But you intrigue me!" The beast in front of you spreads its arms, point its snout up in a dramatic display. The tufts of fur at the side of it's cheeks don't move along with the wind, and you wonder if the beast is truly in front of you.

"I think it would be the most interesting course of action for both of us," it starts, and it's voice drops several octaves lower, "If I threw you back in the hell you came from and watched you _rot_."

With a gasp you jolt, heaving in a breath, eyes wide and unfocused. Your head whips to the side, taking in the atmosphere - your room, still curled up in a ball, but the warmth of the stray beams of light sneaking up on you indicate that it's sunrise. You prop yourself up, knees knocking together and you wrap yourself up in your own arms.

A wave of fear washes over you, and you're scared to admit to yourself that you'd do anything to go back to that field again.

\--

You're 18 years old, and you've just moved away. 

A university overseas has accepted you, and it's the only one that offers what you need. As the years have passed, you've found yourself returning to the question of if Lawrence was holding you back, or if it was your attachments to him. Now that you're an adult, you have to take your life into your own hands, and unfortunately, that means leaving your closest friend.

There's not much else you could do; he had no plans for the rest of his life, had given up sometime in the last year of highschool and seemed to float listlessly through the waves of life, crashing in tune with each blow it gave him, rocking a rhythm you couldn't understand. You'd organized a small get-together with some of the friends you'd made in classes, in the hopes of having a nice evening that wasn't too overwhelming an atmosphere to deter Lawrence. Maybe by the end of the night you could pass your friends on to him, and then you wouldn't feel so guilty about leaving him here all alone.

Of course, when your friends had heard that he was invited, they'd all chickened out. If they hadn't, he would have, you supposed, and you'd rather him there than anyone else.

You prop your feet up on the cheap motel room table, cracking open the cap to a bottle of beer and handing it to Lawrence. The TV plays a show on meerkats; you aren't sure if it's a documentary or a reality show, but you're only half invested in it and much more focused on the warmth of Lawrence beside you. Your eyes flit over his face.

He was a cute kid, but he's a handsome adult, and you feel guilty admitting that to yourself. You'd always assumed your friendship with him would stay platonic, but as school ramped up to a close and thoughts of moving countries became more prominent, you'd found yourself becoming attracted to him in a way that wasn't entirely based off aesthetics.

His eyes bore into the TV, half-lidded and foggy, and he lifts the beer up to his lips. Your gaze trails down to his jaw - strong, and dotted with stubble - and over the length of his neck where his hair curls. Maybe he _has_ held you back, you idly think, twisting circular patterns into the knee of your jeans. But as your gaze flits over his arms, his relaxed posture, the way his knee curves, rested up on the couch as the other stretches long to join yours on the table, you don't find yourself caring as much as you used to. You love him regardless, and if you could repeat your life a thousand times over you'd make the same decisions to end up right here by his side.

He tilts his head in your direction, blinking slow at you.

Your cheeks warm and you hope he doesn't notice. "Beer label," you point. "I was.. reading the ingredients."

He nods, doesn't respond otherwise, and turns his attention back to the TV. Leaning down, your fingers grasp at the top of a second bottle, tearing the lid off for yourself. You prop both legs up on the couch, angling your hips away from Lawrence and press your temple against his shoulder. This is normal, right? Friends do this stuff. Lawrence might be the only friend you have - have had, in a very long time - but you were always affectionate as kids, and that might've stopped in your teen years but you're adults now, and can move past the awkward. He stiffens under your touch - he might not remember what it was like, and you can't blame him - but otherwise doesn't move away from you.

The TV drones on with the chattering of meerkats, dirt shuffling, mouths chewing on centipedes. A voiceover mentions a water reserve, and you blink slower, slower before succumbing to the lull of sleep. An arm drapes around your waist in your last moments, and you slip into peace.

You awake slow and comfortable, guided to the world of the awake with a gentle hold and soft caresses. Bleary eyes break apart, glued together with far too much sleep to be healthy, and the first thing you see is Lawrence's peaceful face as he slumbers underneath you.

Some time during the night, he'd laid down and you'd fallen in his arms. You can't say you're upset - he's exceedingly comfortable, and not much of a shifter when he sleeps - but a part of you battles if this is okay, whether intentional or not. You prop yourself up on weary arms, dazed expression taking in his features. You wish your eyes were your fingertips, tracing each dip and curve of him, grazing tender strokes against his warm skin. Feel how he'd react if he ever knew. You click your tongue. Letting him know is the last thing on your mind.

He frowns and mutters in his sleep, shifting, and you push yourself up off him.

"Hey," you press a hand into his shoulder, rocking him awake. "My flight leaves in two hours. I gotta go."

With a gasp he jolts awake, knocking his head into yours and throwing you backwards. He rubs his forehead with a fist, one eye clenched shut as he looks at you. "I-I'm sorry. Are you okay?"

"Yeah." You force the butterflies in your chest down, "I should get going, though."

"Okay." He breathes. A part of you is disappointed, but you can't say you're surprised. What did you expect? A sob, to be cradled in his arms, laved in kisses and wracked cries of ' _please don't leave me_ '? That's not him - never been him - and guilt eats at you for even thinking it possible.

Of course there'd be no fanfare. He'd accepted your departure just as easily as he'd accepted anything else life threw at him.

A whisper in the back of your mind tells you to kiss him before you go (and it's not like you'd have to handle a broken heart; you'd be gone before he'd register it, and you'd still let your feelings be known) but your eyes take in his expression, the point of his nose, the curve of his brows, the sheer neutrality on his lips. Your heart thrills in excitement, or anxiety, and you lick your own lips in nervousness.

You can't do it.

He stares, unblinking, unfazed by your thought process, or the way your breathes suddenly hitch, forced faster from your chest. You tap a familiar tune against the fabric of the couch. _Ba. Dah. Ba-ba._

This is for the best.

"Good luck," you manage to choke out, and he hums, as if unsure of what you're talking about.

You shuffle off the couch, crick in your neck, cramp in your hip but the pain is worth it considering the warmth of your body. Lawrence watches as you throw bent bottle caps in the trash bin and chuck your scattered belongings into your backpack, ratty and old from constant use but the memories embedded in its weaves leave you unable to part from it.

You chance a glance behind you, hoping to catch his gaze, read anything like longing or regret in his eyes but he's zoned out, staring through the wall. You wave and close the door behind you, and take your first steps into a new life.

It's with a heavy heart that you realize the tattered remains of what you've built for yourself burns around you.

\--

You're 22 years old, and you've just realized life hasn't worked out how you ever planned it to.

After reaching the last few exams in your degree, you'd expected to have adjusted to the motions of life, the unwritten necessities of socializations and pleasantries, understood the way to butter people up and sell yourself as a name, a commodity for people to utilize; _you_ , a want, a gain for any business empire to harness. And yet university had come and gone, and you could say you'd spent your time there, finished projects and you _feel_ improved as a person, but is that what you should have done?

There's no work for you here.

You'd graduated with grades you were okay with; proud, initially, but the years took their toll and your psyche is drained, overstressed and with anxiety coming back full-force, the constant craving for vast fields of wheat an ongoing distraction. But your grades were _fine_ (and part of you knows that even if you'd gotten better, you still wouldn't be happy), so why can't you find work? Have you screwed this up too? Do you have another chance to rework yourself, get your name out there, gain the admiration and trust of your instructors? How many chances do you have?

Depression seeps back in slow, thick, a mucus that clings to all it touches, and when it leaves there's a residue - reminders that it was there, could return at any moment. Days spent staring through the TV screen, counting down moments until a new season of a show on Netflix releases, scouting shops in early hours to avoid foot traffic... it all comes together to make you feel _useless_.

Moving had been useless.

A good university degree is useless if you don't sell yourself.

The last 4 years you've been juggling work, an unbalanced social life, study, mental health days (that may have been too many to be _okay_ , but necessary nonetheless). Your friends seem to care about you - which is strange, you aren't sure how to react to it - and you wish you could be a better friend to them. Accept their phone calls, see them more often, do things for them like bake them cakes or buy them gadgets, RSVP to the birthday parties you'd glossed over and hoped, prayed that they didn't notice that you'd seen the invite. It's become easier and easier to reach for a glass of wine, a can of beer, a swig of straight vodka, and let yourself lie back and watch shapes dance under your eyelids, paint pictures of futures you wish you were in, an alternate reality where everything was easy.

The weight of your own addictions keeps you bedded, staring through the ceiling, craving the unreal warmth of limbo once more.

If you were to do it, to fill yourself with a sea of antidepressants, and let yourself rest and drift into nothingness once more, would it go the same? Would you wake in the wheat fields, feel the warmth on your cheeks, the gentle rays of the sun beating down on you? Would the wind caressing your skin, your hair, your clothes, feel real and comforting? Would the jackal have more for you, give you a purpose, some meaning to grasp for?

Is what you saw real or drug-induced hallucination? And is there any way to guarantee a safe trip there, leaving your body safe and intact for your soul to inhabit once more once you were tired of a false reality?

You miss home.

You're not sure where home is anymore, but it isn't here. You've tried finding home in handful of short-lived hookups, dating not because you particularly liked them, but because they paid attention to you and it made you feel... wanted. Good. You'd never admit it to anyone, and you struggle to admit it to yourself.

Some nights, the ones longer than others, lead to you at the local bar, cradled in a corner taking delicate sips from something much too expensive to be this weak in alcoholic content but it's enough to take your mind away from life, if only for a moment.

Other nights are spent on the balcony of your cheap apartment building, elbows resting on cool metal railings, a cigarette to your lips as you watch the sun set. The smoke unfurls in your lungs, held there while your gaze drifts over the metropolitan area, taking in lone joggers, dingy cars, the occasional rustle of trees in the distance and you blow, releasing a cloud of smoke into the air. It dissipates as you wish you could.

With a sigh, you snub out the cigarette butt, run tired fingers through your hair. A tobacco-scented finger tugs at the nape of your neck - a necklace of the old kitten bones, where the lace acts as it's spine, holding it together - and you twirl the vertebrae between your fingertips. You need to get your shit together.

Moping has done nothing for you. University has done nothing for you. This city has done nothing for you.

You miss home.

\--

You're 26 years old, and you're searching for home.

The alleyways around your old house are cold, and dark, but familiarity paves its way with sweet nostalgia that cuts through fear like a honed blade. Where some would take timid steps you bounce on single tiles, reminiscing of old games you'd play by yourself where colours would equate something horrible. Moss fills cracks in the walls and the sidewalk, where mother nature has taken control once more, claiming back her land, a reminder that human creation is futile in the long run. It all falls apart, the damage repairs, the circle of life rolls onwards. It makes you smile.

Your old house is empty, abandoned and cold, wood warped from a lack of maintenance. Part of you expects to see your mother out the front, tending to the old garden, or your father around the side, fiddling in the shed. The loss of them thrums in your chest; it shouldn't matter, you haven't spoken to them in years, aren't sure if you should or not, it's not like they'd chased _you_ up for continued conversation. You shouldn't have to be the one to maintain conversation.

The woods behind your house are unchanged, as far as you can tell. Less dense than your child-self had thought. It's intriguing nonetheless, and a staunch but not unwelcome reminder of how much time has passed. You wander into the woods, check out carvings on trees that you'd done years long past; twenty years have passed since you first came here, and now, it's coming up to the eighth year since you've been in this city. The trees still bear the weight of the crimes committed by you and your switchblade. You laugh under your breath; well, maybe there's _some_ things that mother nature can't fix.

Deeper in you find a bog you'd spent time near as a child, drawing images of trees acting as limbs grasping air outside the thick tar of bogwater that holds them under. As a teenager, you'd used this spot to hide bones from your collection, deeming it safer than leaving them floating about your house, ready for your parents to catch you with them. One of the trees - a thick one that seeps red, blood-like sap from a mark you'd stabbed into it - marks the home of one of your findings; if your memory serves you right, the dirt holds the body of a ram. It'd been a lucky find on one of your visits, it's body floating in the water. The half of it that'd breached the surface was picked apart by scavengers, whilst the rest of its meat sloughed off into the water beneath it, clouding it in a way that only brought the bones the attention they demanded.

Dropping to your knees, you dig at the trees roots, unearthing the skull horn-first.

It's just as beautiful as you remember.

Even with dirt caked in its eye sockets - small roots curling around clumps of thick mud, the occasional worm wriggling about - it's gorgeously crafted. A part of you - a voice that you now shun, disgusted in its presence - tells you the colours and movement only add to it's beauty. They wriggle and, as some lose their purchase, drop onto your thighs.

The voice might not exactly be wrong, but you digress.

There's more bits hidden in the Earth - you remember digging for what felt like hours, more likely to have utilized a shovel at that time, but desperate to keep the ram for yourself - but you're not in the mood for its ribcage, or its thigh, or its claws. Just the head.

Your fingers dip into its eye socket - deja vu eating you but you're not sure from where it stems - and swirl the finger around, clearing out the caked-in muck. It falls as an almost-perfect puck. You graze your fingertips over the length of its nose, the underside of its jaw (and loosen the dirt hidden there, too, oddly thrilled at the circular shapes that fall from it) and snake your hand up to its horns.

It's getting late.

With a frown, you place it back in the earth and pack dirt back over it, masking its' home. You want to take it with you, give it a display and show the world its beauty, but you'd visited here on a whim, unsure of a place to stay, no idea of a home in mind. Any place you have in mind to crash the night wouldn't accept it.

You shift your gaze up to the changing sky; it's about midday, you think, and you're certain if you don't organize your living arrangements you'll be sleeping out in the woods tonight.

Sighing, you drift down the corridors of your old city again, mind free and feet familiar enough with the paths (that surprisingly haven't changed at all, aside from mild deterioration) that you aren't thinking about the steps you take, the street names, if you can find your way back home (or your old home; it's not home anymore) or if you'll get lost. It doesn't matter.

A mint building greets you as you round a corner, and the smell of it leaves a rumble in your stomach. An old convenience store you'd frequented when young; $1 and $2 coins shoved loose in your pockets, tiny hands reaching over the counter to get bags of cheap lollies that in retrospect weren't worth it, but you'd felt _strong_ , independant with your ability to make purchases. You pop in for old time's sake, and the tinkle of the bell above you makes you a little giddy at the familiarity of the tone.

It's when you're shifting through brands of bread, scanning prices for the cheapest loaf you can find, that you spot him.

Your gaze darts upwards, latches onto a head of blonde hair. Your heart beats faster in your chest, rocking tattoos in your rib cage that you swear will show on your skin. The last thing you expect is to see Lawrence - you _should_ expect him here, it was his home too - but you're not ready. You haven't looked in a mirror in what felt like days, you're certain your hair is a tangled mess, the wrinkles of your hands still have dirt caked in them. Not to mention the fact you haven't been able to grab your concealer, make any sad attempt at hiding the bags under your eyes.

You force your breath slower, watching him move, dip his head down to reach for something out of sight. Your fingers shake, wrapped around the loaf - you're squishing it, you know you are, and now you're stuck with this brand but you don't _care_ -

It's not him.

The man turns around, glances in your direction - his eyes are the wrong colour, muddy brown, pretty, but not right - and he politely nods and walks off to the counter.

Anger bubbles in the back of your throat, tears pressing behind your eyes and you're not sure why you care. You haven't seen Lawrence in eight years. You'd left, and he didn't care, and you were _supposed_ to have your life together by now.

And what's to say he hasn't?

What's to say he isn't off somewhere else, too?

A part of you guilts that you're scared; scared of running into him, scared of confronting a friendship that once was (and _you'd_ broken it, hasn't you? You should've been there for him, and you were _selfish_ ), you're scared of what he might do, or say, if he still wants anything to do with you.

Another part of you battles that it's not him you're scared of.

You've failed, haven't you?

You've reached this far in life, and what have you achieved? You'd picked yourself up, flown across the world, studied in university, worked odd jobs and made money, tried to find a home, never found something comfortable, and yet you've got nothing to show for it.

"Miss?"

You gasp and whip your head in the direction of the voice; it's the man behind the register, and he gives you an uncomfortable smile.

You.. you were shopping. Right.

You take a few slow steps towards the man, placing your items on the counter. "Sorry." You offer, "Just zoned out. You know how it goes."

"It happens to the best of us, don't worry about it." His smile is much more genuine now, and it's comforting. You can do this. You've got this.

You slip the money onto the counter and grip your bags, exiting with a ' _thank you_ ' and a little wave.

After your slipup in the grocery store, you book a few nights stay in the cheapest apartment you can find; it's run down, and there's a weird smell embedded in the walls, but it's affordable and in an area you're okay enough with that you're willing to risk it.

Unpacking is easy. You sling your backpack off your shoulders - the off-coloured thread around the shoulders catches your eye, a staunch reminder that you should probably invest in a new one soon - and you place the bag on your bed.

A wallet, your phone, a half-empty tin container of mints, a packet of cigarettes - three left, you've been savouring them for an important time - along with your lighter...

Your necklace.

You thread your fingers through the silver, twirling it around your index. You let your thumb roll over the bones with a smile. Somehow, the smooth, cool surface had soothed you. Either that, or it was the memories, the nostalgia you couldn't wipe from its surface. It's become a sort of lucky charm to you; if you ever feel anxious, or uncomfortable, you twist your fingers around the bones rested on your neck and before you know it you're grounded. It's pulled you out of its fair share of panic attacks, ones that in retrospect, could have ruined your life.

Every fiber of your being craves warm clothes, new socks, a hairbrush, but you hadn't thought to bring anything of use with you. You'd made the decision to just.. _run_ , go wherever you felt you'd be happy, without any rhyme or reason and landed here with nothing to your name but some money you'd saved up over the years. Probably.. no, definitely not the most intelligent choice you've made, but you're defiant and prideful, and stick with it regardless.

Your weary body begs you to sleep, a fast-forward to a new day where you feel you can start fresh, paint over your old mistakes with the sunrise and start anew, but you're restless. Daydreaming of how you got here, where you'll go now, the responsibility you have over your own life, your own happiness, and it's overwhelming. How do people tolerate this?

How does someone go through life and just.. make good decisions?

How does someone become an admirable person, achieve their dreams, feel like a valued member of society? You're not sure you'll ever know.

You twist on your side, glance out the window to the night sky, where you hope to see the sparkle of stars to remind you that you're small, insignificant, and you shouldn't worry about the weight of your own actions.

There's no stars.

There's no glittering lights.

There's only light pollution. It dulls the display you saw years ago, a sight you'd long for and spend nights in the backyard pointing out stars and asking constellation names to your mother and father. When they'd tell you the wrong names and hope you'd guess which constellation was real between _Carina, Ophiucus_ , and _The Irken Spaceship._

You'd giggle and say the last one - it was always the last, too - and when they'd gasp and ask ' _how do you know? You're so smart!_ ' you'd giggle, writhe under their tickling hands, and say ' _because it's not a stupid name, silly!_ '

A groan of frustration leaves your throat, and you frown, slapping your hand on the phone resting on the bedside table. You should've been kinder to your parents. You're lucky you have them.

Just another mistake added to the pile.

Flipping your phone towards you, you thumb over your passcode, swiping to the main screen.

It's 3am.

It doesn't feel like you're going to sleep any time soon, and whilst a younger you - a more conscious you, a more caring you - might've fought with you on the idea, you slip on your shoes and head out. You swipe at your necklace at the last minute, latching it on for luck. A shiver runs down your spine as the cool breeze greets you, and the idea of a caress seems a stupid comparison, when it's more like thousands of icicles punching your throat. You grimace and march onwards, to a destination you're unsure of.

Left without your guidance you find yourself in unfamiliar territory; heavily wooded, more secluded than your city, but a quick glance at your phone confirms you've only been walking about five minutes. Glancing at the buildings, you judge that this must be the opposite side of the city; your parents had told you not to wander too far, and a cafe you must've passed a few seconds ago would've been the same that your parents told you not to pass.

A forest - bigger than the one you call your own - creeps up ahead, and you play with the idea of snooping about, the idea of scavenging some parts hard to resist, but the shuffle of footsteps demands your attention.

There's a man heading out of the forest towards you, hands in pockets; blonde hair in a low ponytail, hunched over and the thing that sticks out the most is that he's wearing sweatpants along with an otherwise nice - if not for some dark stains on it - button-down shirt.

You shuffle to the side, prepared to give way to him but he looks up at you and you both stall.

He looks.. worse for wear; as much as you'd like to say your attraction to him resurfaces with a vengeance, it's a little hard when his hair is wet with grease and the bags under his eyes have only gotten deeper. If it wasn't for the fact that his eye colour is so specifically him, you would've assumed this to be an entirely new man all together.

Unfortunately, it's Lawrence.

You have no clue how to proceed with this. Movies make it seem so easy - you're supposed to cry his name, and he yours, and you hug and it rains and you kiss and tell him every regret you have about leaving him behind, or at the very least you're excited to see each other and there's an easy exchange about coffee and catching up and how much you miss each other - but the words all stick together in your throat like glue, and the tension in the air is undeniably weird.

It's been too long since you've seen him - nothing says he's the same person as he once was, especially at the time you'd left. The only thing you can confirm right now is that no, apparently he _hasn't_ left, and he, as bad as you feel judging him like this, doesn't seem to have become any sort of famous researcher or philanthropist or anything.

A wave of shame washes over you, leaving you colder than the night's air had.

Has he struggled too? Was he just coming home from work, and went out for a night stroll? Was he running laps in the forest, and _that's_ why he looks so frazzled?

Are you to blame?

You blame yourself, but you also kick yourself over the fact that you're being presumptuous by assuming you'd have any change on him if you'd stayed.

"Lawrence?" You whisper, kicking yourself for zoning out _again_.

He blinks at you, shoulders tense and stance unsure. "Um, hello."

You frown. "It's me -" You go to introduce yourself again, but he smiles, clearly uncomfortable with it all.

"Yeah." He scratches at his jaw, gaze on the ground. "Um, did you want something?"

You make a point to ignore the way your heart thrums in pain.

"Yeah," you try not to sound too needy, "I haven't seen you in like... eight years."

He nods, still in an awkward stance.

"Did you want to.. catch up?"

He adjusts his stance, now, lowering his shoulders and frowning, unsure. "Give me.. ten minutes?"

"Okay, yeah." You breathe. "Do you live around here?"

He nods, and you notice him scratch idly at his elbow.

"I can walk you, if you like."

"Sure." He chances another glance at you, smiling but it's fake, forced, it hurts more to think about that than if he'd just not attempted it at all.

It's for the best that you keep anything and everything you're thinking under wraps; Lawrence is different, more than you'd expect in the time you've been gone, and everything feels wrong and stilted, like you're making mistake after mistake and pushing something unwanted on him at every turn. Like your friendship fizzled out with nothing, no bang, no indication, the moment you'd left and you're on your hands and knees brushing whatever ashes together that you can, trying to forge something new.

As sad as it is to admit it to yourself, it's the only thing you understand. Even if you don't truly understand. Maybe you won't ever understand. But somehow it makes sense.

Lawrence makes sense.

You're 26, and you've found home.

**Author's Note:**

> WOOPS I did this instead of studying for my finals!!! I'm sorry. Shinsou will be up soon I'm just filled with love and adoration for this man and I gotta ride it out, lmao.
> 
> Thank you to the absolute angel @Atroposisms who is a sweetie and beta'd for me <3 
> 
> If you wanna chat or see what I'm working on, you can find me on Tumblr @ valeander!


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